


Itha: To Look

by Isala_Vhenan



Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Creepy, Gen, Horror, Minor Violence, Nonbinary Character, Other, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isala_Vhenan/pseuds/Isala_Vhenan
Summary: Our discord has some wonderful events planned for Halloween week, and one of them is to write a ghost/horror story based on prompts. This is mine! (Content warning for animal death and blood, as well as general creepiness)Clan Lavellan sets up camp in a forest clearing where an ominous warning is etched into the stone. Isala stands guard as night falls and comes face-to-face with unknown forces
Relationships: Lavellan & Lavellan Clan (Dragon Age)
Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697836





	Itha: To Look

_ Don’t look over your shoulder at night. What lies behind will lie ahead.  _

It was etched in elvish on the stone, scrawled hastily as though written in desperation. Some in the clan laughed when Isala read it aloud, a few chuckles held an undercurrent of nervousness, others confident disbelief. 

She wasn’t sure.

Something in Deshanna’s gaze, the worry hanging in the tawny green seemed to hint at a deeper meaning, a pre-existing knowledge. It made Isala tense; she had the creeping feeling that this site would be best passed untouched. That whoever carved that message had encountered whatever lingered here, and paid the price. 

“The veil is at its thinnest this time of year, I wonder if it is truly wise to remain...” Deshanna’s voice was low and unsettled, their brow knitted in concern, but they shook their head even as they voiced doubts. “But we cannot keep moving. The aravels need tending, as do the sick and the halla.” Clouded green eyes turned to Isala. “Do not let any of our kin stray from here,  _ Sa’len.”  _

She nodded.  _ “Ma nuvenin,  _ Keeper.”

The nervous laughter that had been sparked by the message was fleeting, leaving only an eerie silence in the too-quiet woods; the only sounds the rustle of wind through leaves and the rhythm of Clan Lavellan preparing for evening, which came on quickly and without mercy. Even the stars, though they tried their best, could not light up the darkness that crept in, nor lighten the atmosphere that hung over the camp. Clouds settled in, cloaking the meadow in more oppressive opacity, the halla whimpering as clan members retreated into their aravels, cradling their children close and scanning their surroundings warily.

Isala kept her eyes open, wide awake and almost vibrating with the tension. She would protect the clan, she only wished she knew what from. The torches they had lit flickered as the wind picked up, sounding almost as though it carried a voice on its dance through the trees and the tendrils of Isala’s hair, whipped up in the gale. She raised her nose to it, searching for any distinct scents or signs of trouble. As she did so, she heard a cry from outside the circle of aravels, like that of a young halla or a child. 

_ Had someone been separated from the group?  _

She rose, fingers clenching around her staff, her other hand raising to summon a light wisp that danced in her palm, wary, but not hesitating to go to aid whoever was crying out. Isala resisted the urge to call out, keeping her eyes steady ahead, scanning the brush and trees for movement beyond the wind which again swept through her and seemed to whisper in her ear. 

_ “--Bellanaris--” Eternity?  _ She turned sharply, whipping her head to look to the side where the wind had caressed her ear, her earrings still jangling softly as she raised a hand to them, the tips so cold they felt as though they were burning. Isala saw and sensed no one, neither spirit nor demon. 

_ Nor living thing? _

She grew still, hand falling from her ear, gaze returning to the brush where she’d been sure she heard sounds of distress. Isala sent out another sensing spell.

Nothing.

Again.

_ Nothing. _

But even as she did so the brush trembled with movement again, a strangled cry emerging from the shaking leaves, mangled and foreign, something abominable in its keening howl. 

Isala froze.

_ Don’t look over your shoulder at night. What lies behind will lie ahead.  _

_ Had she looked?  _ She couldn’t recall, mind racing to make sense of the nothingness her magic insisted lay ahead of her even as whatever was crying from within the brush continued to struggle. 

Again the wind whispered past, again it carried words that seemed to prick Isala’s skin like needles.

_ “--him sa or...em'an? Di--” Become one of us. _

Her heart was racing, the guttural wails from within the thicket seemed to reach their peak before quieting, becoming bone chilling, rhythmic moans. They almost seemed to be getting closer. Isala stilled, something rising from where her feet met the ground to her chest, extending into her fingertips until everything within her seemed to scream at her to run, run quickly or there would be nothing left of her, some instinct that shrieked as she stood there, rooted with fear. 

Then the roots snapped, and she was free. She turned, deliberately, never moving her head independently from her body as she did so, careful not to turn to look over her shoulder, simply moving slowly, with intention. 

Isala took one step, then another. Another. 

Then she ran. 

It seemed to take hours to return to her clan, somehow her feet had carried her deep into the woods. A journey that had felt like a few minutes and only a few yards somehow became miles, the forest stretching ahead of her, seeming endless, her ears aching in the violent symphony of wind and air rushing past her ears, desperately craving the sounds of life, the reprieve from this nothingness--

She broke through the brush, arriving in the clearing, the torches still lit, the soft rustling of blankets and furs accompanied by snores and soft conversation. The lights within the aravels glowed softly, her magic sensed every precious life that was her clan. 

Just as her chest lightened with relief, lungs burning but shoulders relaxing from anxieties reprieved, she saw the stain of red and white in the middle of the clearing, black eyes clouded over, horns gouged into the grass, mouth open as though crying out, white fur stained with crimson, chest and stomach splayed open and insides gone, the blood seeming to emanate like flames from the halla’s corpse, as though the scarlet river were trying to escape, or form a path to lead her somewhere. From behind her, the whisper, again, crooned in her ears. 

_ “Ju’ma itha?” Will you look? _

_ - _

She did not. Isala’s eyes stayed forward the rest of the night as she removed evidence of the desecration, cleaning up the scene, washing away the blood, not daring to harvest the rest of the halla. She buried its corpse and prayed over the grave. She did not sleep nor turn her head. She stood guard, ignoring the whispers that faded with morning’s first light. Let no one know, but let everyone heed the warning. She prayed what had lain ahead would lay back again as they left the woods, none the wiser, save her.


End file.
